Dress like you actually matter

It’s not really about clothes.

What started with a colleague reminding me to iron my outfit became a much bigger lesson about visibility, gratitude, stewardship and remembering that I am also worth taking care of.

By Damilola Adeniregun · 8 min read

A colleague once reminded me that I needed to iron my clothes.

It wasn't cruel. It wasn't some dramatic intervention. It was just a comment. But I remember what happened in my head almost immediately.

It doesn't matter anyway.

That was the part that stayed with me.

Not the ironing. Not even what I had worn that day. The fact that somewhere along the way, I had decided that how I presented myself didn't really matter anymore.

The house mattered. The children mattered. Making sure everyone had clean clothes mattered. Making sure their outfits coordinated mattered. Bags packed, hair done, shoes found, everybody leaving the house looking presentable.

But apparently, I didn't.

Or at least, I wasn't treating myself like I did.

It wasn’t about impressing people

I want to make this distinction very clear.

My appearance hasn’t become important to me because I suddenly want to impress everybody around me. I am not trying to become the it girl of my workplace, and this isn’t about walking into a room hoping everybody notices my outfit.

It has actually become something much more personal.

Taking pride in how I present myself has become a reminder to me that I am important too.

When I iron my clothes, choose something intentionally, take an extra few minutes with my hair or wear something that actually fits properly, I am quietly saying:

You are worth taking care of too.

And strangely, that has changed the way I feel when I walk into a room.

I am happier to be seen. I am happier to be visible. I don’t feel like I’m trying to disappear before I’ve even spoken.

Because whether we like it or not, sometimes we are seen before we are heard.

Before I introduce myself, before I explain what I do, before anybody knows whether I am intelligent, funny, capable, kind or thoughtful, I have already walked into the room.

My presentation has already said something.

And I’ve realised I don’t want that message to be:

I remembered everybody except myself.

I was taking care of everybody else

This is probably the part that surprised me most.

I was already somebody who cared about presentation. I cared whether the children left the house looking put together. I cared whether my husband’s clothes looked good. I cared about our home. I cared about the details.

So it wasn’t that I had suddenly discovered the concept of taking pride in things.

I had just somehow excluded myself from it.

I could spend an incredible amount of energy making sure my whole household stepped out presentably while forgetting that I am also a valuable member of that household.

And my children are watching me too.

They are not only learning from how I care for them. They are learning from how I care for myself.

What am I teaching my daughters if they watch their mother make sure everybody else looks beautiful, comfortable and cared for while she continuously treats herself like an afterthought?

That isn’t the example I want to give them.

For me, this became a question of stewardship

My faith changed the way I started thinking about this too.

I have been given a body, a life, resources, opportunities, responsibilities, a home, clothes, a family and a calling.

And stewardship isn’t only about money.

It isn’t only about using your gifts or managing your time well. There is something to be said for taking care of what God has already placed in your hands.

For me, learning to present myself well became one small expression of gratitude.

Not worshipping appearance.

Not chasing perfection.

Not believing my value is determined by what I look like.

Actually, almost the opposite.

It is because I believe my value goes deeper than appearance that I no longer want to behave as though this version of me is unworthy of care.

I don’t need to wait until I am thinner. I don’t need to wait until I’ve reached some imaginary ideal. I don’t need to wait until everything in my life feels settled.

I can steward what I have now.

I can respect the woman God has made me to be now.

I can take care of her now.

Easier said than done, obviously.

Because the first thing I had to confront was something embarrassingly practical.

I had absolutely no idea what size I was

This is where the story gets slightly ridiculous.

I was still squeezing myself into clothes connected to the body I had before my first child.

That was about six years ago.

In my mind, I was still somewhere around a size 10 or 12 with an hourglass figure, and I was quite committed to this information.

The clothes were giving me evidence. The mirror was giving me evidence. My discomfort was giving me evidence.

Apparently none of that mattered.

In my head?

Size 10/12. Hourglass. Case closed.

Then I created a size calculator.

And according to my actual measurements, I was closer to a size 16/18. My proportions were also reading much more pear-shaped than hourglass.

I know.

Plot twist.

But the most fascinating part wasn’t the number. It was how resistant I was to believing it.

I genuinely wasn’t ready to accept that I might need to pick up a size 18. There was something psychological about that number, as though the label inside my trousers had somehow become a verdict on me.

So eventually I decided to test it.

Not emotionally.

Practically.

I went shopping with an open mind. Instead of picking up the size I thought I should be, I picked up the size my actual measurements suggested. I also started trying clothes that worked better with my current proportions.

More structure through the top. More room through the bottom. Shapes that worked with my body instead of fighting it.

And then something very annoying happened.

I looked smaller.

I thought smaller clothes would make me look smaller

Apparently this is not how fabric works.

I had been squeezing myself into smaller sizes because somewhere in my mind I thought:

If the clothes are smaller, I will look smaller.

Instead, everything was being squashed. Waistbands were digging in. Fabric was pulling. Things that should have skimmed were clinging.

I was constantly pulling my skirt down, pulling my top down, readjusting, checking whether something had rolled up and wondering whether a button was fighting for its life.

Trying to sit down without launching said button into somebody’s eye.

I wasn’t wearing my clothes. I was negotiating with them.

Then I put on clothes that actually fit.

And my body could breathe.

Suddenly there weren’t rolls being created by waistbands cutting into places they didn’t need to cut into. Fabric fell properly. Trousers moved with me. Tops sat where they were supposed to sit.

And because I wasn’t spending the entire day secretly monitoring my outfit, I became more confident.

There is a very specific freedom in sitting down and knowing your clothes are going to stay where they are.

The number was never the problem

A size is supposed to be information.

That is all.

Information that helps you choose the piece of fabric most likely to fit your body.

Somewhere along the way, I had turned it into an identity.

A size 18 didn’t mean I had failed. A size 10 wouldn’t mean I had succeeded. And squeezing into a 12 wasn’t going to magically transport me back into an old body anyway.

The strange thing is that accepting the larger number actually made me feel better about myself.

Not because I suddenly loved every part of my body.

Not because all insecurity disappeared.

But because I stopped fighting reality every morning.

There was relief in saying:

Okay. This is the body I am dressing today.

Not the body from six years ago.

Not the body I may have in six months.

This one.

And once I started dressing her, everything got easier.

Taking pride in myself changed more than my wardrobe

Something unexpected started happening.

I became more willing to be visible. I stopped automatically wanting to shrink into the background. I walked into work differently. I carried myself differently.

I didn’t suddenly become a different person.

I just wasn’t arriving already apologising for myself.

And that mattered.

Because I am a woman with things to say.

I lead. I teach. I create. I raise children. I serve. I build.

I walk into rooms where I need to communicate before I’ve even opened my mouth.

Presentation cannot create substance where there is none.

But it can stop distracting me from the substance that is already there.

And perhaps that is the biggest change.

Getting dressed is no longer primarily about asking:

What will people think when they see me?

I’m beginning to ask:

Does the way I have cared for myself today reflect the fact that I believe I am worth caring for?

You are also part of the household

There is a particular trap in motherhood where everybody else’s needs become incredibly visible and your own slowly become optional.

You notice everybody needs new shoes. You notice the child’s coat is getting small. You notice your husband needs a shirt ironed. You notice somebody’s hair needs doing. You notice the school uniform needs replacing.

You notice what everybody else needs.

And somehow you can stand in the middle of all that noticing wearing something that doesn’t fit, doesn’t feel good and hasn’t represented you for years.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

Because I am not merely the person responsible for presenting everybody else to the world.

I am part of this family too.

I deserve some of the care I so naturally extend to everybody else.

Not because appearance determines my worth.

But because my worth means I am allowed to care about myself too.

Dress the woman who is here

I still have goals.

My body may change again. My style will probably evolve. There are clothes I may wear differently in another season.

But I don’t want to spend another season punishing the body I currently have because it hasn’t yet become the body I imagine.

There is freedom in knowing your measurements.

There is freedom in buying the correct size.

There is freedom in letting the label stay inside the garment where it belongs.

There is freedom in walking into a room without tugging, squeezing, hiding and adjusting.

And there is something deeply grounding about looking in the mirror before you leave the house and knowing:

I didn’t forget her today.

I didn’t take care of everybody else and leave her until last.

I didn’t wait for her to become smaller, fitter, younger, richer or more polished before deciding she deserved care.

I dressed the woman who is here.

Because there is no becoming HER.

She was already here.

A LITTLE HELP FROM HER

If you’re realising that you’ve been dressing an old version of your body, or you’re simply not sure what actually fits you anymore, I created the HER Style Reset to help.